


We've Been Down This Road Before

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are several universal constants. They are two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Been Down This Road Before

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt by left by [](http://takethewords.livejournal.com/profile)[takethewords](http://takethewords.livejournal.com/) , at her [Billie Piper Ficathon](http://takethewords.livejournal.com/424006.html). Super huge thanks to [](http://stillxmyxheart.livejournal.com/profile)[stillxmyxheart](http://stillxmyxheart.livejournal.com/) for being the night owl that she is and giving it a once over at 2am. And for that Stephen King thing. XD You're awesome.

The bartender wipes his damp rag over a sticky ring of liquor and then stacks the clean glasses in neat even rows. He checks the clock.

The big hand is almost on twelve.

 

 

 

He’d think it was a shame that there are so few left to see this if he hadn’t been responsible for so many of them not being here. At the bar there’s a tall lonely man in a well-worn suit bent over a drink, an old man sitting in the corner booth picking at a basket of chips, and a fat, nervous woman standing to the left of the stage who keeps fiddling with a broken fob watch.

He watches with mild amusement as his counterpart strides over to the table, the sharp click of her heels echoing through the nearly empty room. Her red silk dress sways around her legs and he almost laughs at the irony of the situation, the wolf in Red Riding Hood’s clothes.

She slides into the chair across from him, setting down her drink and plucking the cherry out of it in one fluid motion. Despite the disinterested way he looks around at the other patrons, she knows he has an eye on her every movement, as she does his. Holding her sweet little prize between her teeth, she flicks her tongue against it, laughing lightly when his pupils dilate just a touch.

He grins, a disturbed twist in the corners of his mouth, as she wraps her lips around the cherry and pulls it free from the stem. The low hum that vibrates up from her throat as she bites into it makes his trousers tight and he shifts uneasily, uncrossing his legs and turning towards the large viewing window.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks. She gives him a noncommittal shrug, and he can tell by the way her neck flexes that she’s swallowing the cherry. He tries not to focus on her mouth, or how smooth the bourbon would taste if he sucked its flavor off her tongue.

She takes a sip of her drink, absently wiping a lost drop from her bottom lip. “I'm not really sure this is the kind of thing that's supposed to be enjoyed.”

There's a familiar hint of melancholy in her voice that he ignores, even as his eyes dart to the tall man at the bar. “You'd really rather spend these last minutes here? Sitting in a – in a pub with castoffs and runaways?”

“You forget,” she says, “I've seen this show before.” She turns her chair towards the window, and stretches her legs out to rest her feet on the low sill.

He chuckles and tosses back the last swallow from his glass, the ice rattling and knocking against his teeth. “So have I.” Then he looks around and frowns. “I remember it being a little more interesting last time. There were strange folk with sharp pointy teeth, very wild. You'd have liked them, I think.”

She smiles ever so slightly and stirs the little white straw around her glass, watching the cloudy liquid spin into a little funnel. She holds the straw in the middle of the whirlpool for a moment before letting go, watching as it’s battered around by the laws of the universe.

She knows exactly how the straw feels.

Her hands smooth over the fabric of her dress until it falls evenly on either side of her, hanging like a scarlet curtain over her thighs. It's a bit absurd that they should be the ones left, here at the end of all things. Absurd, and yet fitting.

“We could go anywhere you know.” He says it like she’s forgotten, and she just shakes her head and sips at her drink, content that they are right where they should be. He sighs and leans back in his chair, linking his fingers behind his head. His eyes fall closed, and he breathes deep and even, focusing on slowing the thump of the drums to a more manageable level. It takes more and more effort these days and he’s glad it will soon be over. He wonders briefly if it will be bells next time or a terribly catchy commercial jingle.

She takes a long sip of her drink, and turns back to him, leaning her arms on the table. “You could at least pretend to care.”

There’s a disappointment in her voice that annoys him. He knows that this isn’t where she wants to be, nor is he who she wants to be with. Frankly it’s not his idea of a good time either, but there are some things that even he understands to be necessary.

Outside the window, the stars begin going out.

He shifts in his chair, reaching out to lay his hand over hers, turning her palm up and stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb. It’s even softer than he imagined. “And you could at least pretend to like me.”

At that she looks away and down into her drink, studying the orientation of the ice cubes and the way they seem to have floated to form a star shape between the center and the sides of the glass. It makes her sad. Eventually this star will melt away too.

His hand leaves her wrist and he runs a finger down her cheek to her jaw, catching her chin and lifting her eyes to him. She blinks and he cups her cheek, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. “I could tell you how he died again.”

For a moment her eyes shine with unshed tears, but the shimmer of water quickly gives away to a light golden glow. He tries to pull away but she grabs his wrist, digging her nails into the lines of blue veins. He hisses at the pain. She smirks.

Then his expression morphs from pain to amazement to a blissful calm. The ever present pounding, thumping drums cease and he feels warm from head to toe. He shuts his eyes, savoring the sensation and when he opens them, the bar is bathed in a comforting glow.

She gives his wrist one last squeeze, just enough to draw blood, and then she lets go. Instantly he shrieks and pulls his injured arm back so violently that he ends up shoving himself away from the table. The back of his chair hits the wall behind him and he falls forward, clutching his head in his hands, palms pressed to his ears as the percussive thrum returns full force.

“ _Bitch!_ ” he spits.

“You started it,” she replies with a shrug. He starts muttering and whimpering to himself, rocking back and forth. “Oh calm down, you’re making a scene.”

Eventually he does calm down, but he refuses to pull his chair up to the table again. The drums settle into a tolerable rhythm, not quite distracting but not quite gone either. She orders them another round of drinks and they sip in relative silence, commenting only when a particularly bright star fades from view. Each one has a story, a memory, for one or both of them. They know that when the last star extinguishes itself, and they are left staring at nothing but endless black, that it is never really the end.

They’ve both been here before after all.

 

 

 

The bartender pulls the small stack of bills off the table, slipping them into his pocket, and collects the two empty glasses. He checks the clock.

The little hand is just past one.


End file.
